


Essays, Conversations and Appendices for the Master of London

by Laughing_Phoenix, teacup_of_doom



Series: The Master of London [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Author Commentary, Commentary, Essays, Gen, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:00:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laughing_Phoenix/pseuds/Laughing_Phoenix, https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacup_of_doom/pseuds/teacup_of_doom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Replies to comments, assorted musing, nattering, and head-canons.  Also includes deleted scenes and supplementary ficcage we couldn't fit into the main continuity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Helga Hufflepuff

**Author's Note:**

> This essay is the reply to a comment by fanomy on Chapter 9 of The Master of London. The note read as follows: “This is so cool, where did you find the research material? Did JKR wrote something about her? Or was it all pulled out of you fabulous head? I simply adore your story.”

Thank you for the comment about my fabulous head ;)

Sadly, as far as I can tell, JKR did not write much about Helga herself. My first dive into researching Helga was into the basics, the Harry Potter Lexicon and her wiki page. From there, the picture I began to build of Helga kept growing. I’ve listed some links below my long ramble.

Helga Hufflepuff, according to the wiki, was born in tenth century Wales. By the time Helga had been born, the Romans had come and gone, and much (but not all) the country was Christian. However, Wales was not a unified country, but a collection of kingdoms with a semi-common language, culture, and social structure, even after Helga’s birth (According to one of my links, Wales was not unified until 1057A.D, but was starting to coalesce around 877A.D.) As such, the Welsh referred to themselves as “Cymry” or “fellow countrymen”, never “the Welsh”. The term also applied to the Scots. Wales was, however, its own land in terms of culture. They held onto that, despite the Vikings and and the Romans. 

The way Welsh society was designed was somewhat similar to feudalism elsewhere. Lords, almost universally warriors, held the highest positions, and no one under that caste could possibly be considered “free”. Wealth, as in today’s society, was a symbol of class. The lower classes were bound to the land, their warriors, and had very little wiggle room. Family and blood ties were extremely important.

Helga therefore grew up in a politically and physically unstable environment. (One of my links claimed that rulers were often killed, which, to be honest, happened just as frequently everywhere else in the world at the time.) And I haven’t even factored in the frequent, devastating Viking raids yet. 

I had to approach Helga in a way that would determine her background, taking into account both what we know of her in HP and what we don’t know. 

To start with, I examined Helga’s character. Helga has always struck me as someone who understood duty to others, was strong of mind and clarity. Also, in the books, we are told that Helga Hufflepuff valued “loyalty, honesty, fair play, and hard work”. 

I had to figure out why Helga had turned out this way, and how she could have come about her beliefs. 

As such, I decided that Helga would have had to come from a family in Wales’ warrior class. In that station, Helga would have had the wealth to help build Hogwarts, and the right ideology. As a woman in the warrior class, in a land constantly under attack, Helga would have not been allowed in combat (although the idea of Helga as a swordswoman is very tempting). But Helga would have been involved in the day to day upkeep of the land, of her people, politics and - in times of trouble - organizing troops, defenses, evacuations, supplies.

Helga is, therefore, a woman with a plan. Many plans.

Not only is she concerned with the loyalty of her men (really her father’s, but they’d have to listen to her) because they are charged with the protection of her family, people, and land, but also to their desire to protect the land where they live, grow their crops, raise their children. Helga’s duty was to do right by her own people. To ensure their safety, to govern them fairly, to be fair in judgements, and to work just as hard as they did. Thus, Helga would have seen the potential in everyone - their ability to help, and be useful to those around them.

Politics would have been daily fare for Helga - any ill rumor or act could have been disastrous to her people. So, Helga would have needed to become a very, very good politician. Her alliance with the house-elves in Harry Potter is an excellent example of that. She saw a group in need, and felt a duty to keep them safe. She managed to convince her fellow founders that house elves could come to Hogwarts and work, in exchange for a safe haven. This would have been an accomplishment, for there were likely many witches and wizards around that time who looked down upon house elves as lesser beings - as many still did in Harry Potter’s time. 

Rowena Ravenclaw would have had to have lived under a comparable set of circumstances - coming from Scotland, a fellow “Cymry” - and they would have become fast friends through common experience. Both of them would be curious souls looking for their own safe haven. 

Helga would have also needed to be frighteningly intelligent - both to accomplish what she did in Wales for her own people - but also to earn respect as a woman who was doing what she did, and as a witch in Christian Wales to boot, and I wanted that to come across. All I can think of is this redheaded young woman, marching across a muddy courtyard, giving orders - kindly - and helping with the hard work on a cold, gloomy day, not caring that she’s getting dirty, mussed. I like to think she had a sense of humor too.

I have no idea what landed Helga in England. Perhaps she was a refugee, or came with a contingent of Welsh ambassadors, or even to trade. But I’m glad JKR thought of her.

Helga as spell creator and researcher came out of both necessity for the story line, but also from the feeling that a Founder of both Hogwarts and the modern Wizarding World had to be known for more than her dexterity with cooking charms. Moreover, she had to be intelligent enough to contribute something towards the education of students at the school - so what else could she have done? 

And there you have it. How I created the background of my Helga Hufflepuff - I’ve added some links below, but some of it was pulled, indeed, from my head or what I learned in school.

You sent me a comment, I… Well, I wrote you an essay. 

Hope you enjoyed it!


	2. Yellow Badge of Duty: An Interview with Watson's Warriors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Published in _The Guardian_ in June 2014.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by Laughing_Phoenix

Almost immediately after Sherlock Holmes fell from the roof of St. Bart’s, a movement sprung up around him. On blogs, social media, even the street, the faithful scrawled their two messages: “Moriarty was real” and “I believe in Sherlock Holmes.”

Less than six months later, a third message joined them, in the same bright yellow paint: “We are Watson’s Warriors.” At first, it appeared that the spread of the new phrase was instigated by John Watson, Holmes’ friend and blogger, but police investigations showed that he had nothing to do with the graffiti.

Perhaps a month after the first message, Warriors began to appear on London’s streets. Wearing yellow scarves, hats, or badges, they volunteered at soup kitchens and homeless shelters, food pantries and veteran’s affairs offices. In their downtime, they ran interference for Watson, providing a cordon against both the press and the simply curious.

The longer the Warriors were publically active, the clearer it became that this wasn’t a loosely affiliated group of do-gooders, but rather a definitively organized movement, coordinated with near-military precision. Groups would assemble daily to get their marching orders, then disperse across the city.

Their numbers kept growing as well – it’s hard to identify exactly who is a member of the Warriors, but it is estimated that by the end of 2013 there were over 600 Warriors in London alone, and more groups were springing up in other British metropolises.

Yet despite their public activities and charitable works, determining much of anything about the Warriors is difficult. They’re not fond of the press, and will go out of their way to discourage journalists. Members of the press who have joined the Warriors with the intent of writing an article about the experience have been shut out, discredited. Requests for even a moment of their time typically return a ‘no comment’.

Getting an interview with members of the Warrior leadership, then, would be a daunting task. In the end, I elected to be as straightforward with my request as possible. Digging around online, I found a simple Watson’s Warriors forum and a contact email where people can submit questions or requests for aid. I wrote up an email asking for an interview and sent it off, emphasizing that all I was interested in was the establishment of the group and their mission statement. I also approached a couple of the groups of Warriors and asked those coordinating the rest if it would be possible to ask a few questions.

It took some persistence, but eventually it paid off – after about a month, rather than being turned away summarily, I was told that I’d want to talk to Frank. A message arrived in my inbox three days later, saying that Frank (no last name given) had agreed to speak to me. We set up an appointment at an outdoor café near Regents’ Park.

Frank proved to be a tall man in his late thirties or early forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a ready smile. Despite the warmth of the May afternoon, he wore a yellow and black scarf. Introductions made, I repeated my pitch and made it as clear as I could that I wasn’t looking for a scandal or personal information.

Frank nodded. “We can work with that.”

I pulled out my recorder, but was forestalled by a raised hand. “We’re waiting on someone else,” he told me. “Should be here any minute.”

We didn’t speak until a few minutes later, when another man showed up to our table.

“I’m here, sorry about that, traffic was terrible.” I was surprised to recognize the man who dropped into the seat next to Frank. Colin Creevey, 33, is a freelance photographer who travels the globe. Readers will probably recognize his work, if not the name – back in 2006 he won several prizes for “What Now?” a haunting picture of a young, recently orphaned Sudanese refugee sitting by the covered body of her father. He specializes in hotspots of sectarian violence, where he has a particular talent for working with children, refugees and child soldiers alike. This may be because he’s marked by violence himself – a web of scars radiates out from around his right eye, testament to the bomb that killed his parents in 1997.

“You’re a member of Watson’s Warriors?” I ask him.

“Yep!” Colin grins. “Frank and I joined early, we were there when we voted on the name.”

“When was that?”

“Seventeen years ago. Late October of ’97, wasn’t it?”

Frank nods. “A week before Halloween.”

I boggle. Like most, I’d assumed that the Warriors were a relatively new group, formed in mid-2012. I say as much, and the men across the table shake their heads.

“We’ve grown a lot since then,” Frank admits, “but the core of the group, the first hundred and fifty or so, joined up in ’97.”

I ask about the group’s genesis. “Is John Watson the source of the name?”

Frank’s smile is nostalgic and a little sad. “He always has been.”

The story they tell me is bare-bones, nothing I cannot (and indeed, later do) find in the public record. John Watson’s parents were brutally murdered at the start of July 1997, during the wave of violence that swept the country from early ’97 to mid ’98 - the perpetrators were never caught. He was seventeen at the time, and determined to take care of his ten-year-old sister, Harriet. They managed to make their way to London, where they stayed with family friends. As the toll from the violence and disasters accumulated, John decided to act.

“John is constitutionally incapable of sitting around when someone needs help,” Frank says fondly. “So he started going around to those who’d been bombed out or injured, offering to help. A lot of people sort of laughed at him, but some were desperate enough to take his help. A few of us were angry enough to want something to do, and John scooped us right up, directing us to where he thought we could do the most good. By the end of September we’d become this coordinated group. More people were joining every week.”

“What did you do?” I ask.

“This and that.” Frank shrugs. “We offered to watch people’s kids while they sorted things out, helped pack things away, repaired houses, moved furniture, brought around hot meals when we could. I spent an entire week helping fill out visa paperwork for a family that decided to get out of the country after their house was lost.”

“It helped that a lot of us knew or knew of each other,” Colin adds. “John, Frank and I all went to the same school. John was two years ahead of me and a prefect, so I knew who he was and trusted him.”

“I left school the year before John started, but a neighbour of mine had known his dad,” Frank tells me. “Things like that. What’s that saying about six degrees?”

“Six degrees of separation?” I offer.

Frank laughs. “Exactly.”

“Was that a prerequisite for joining? Did you have to be sponsored in or something?”

Frank sits back, sighing. “It helped if we knew you or a Warrior vouched for you, yeah. The fact of the matter is, things were bad, and if we were going to bring somebody in we wanted to make sure they wouldn’t, say, steal things or spend all their time drunk and picking fights. Most of the time it wasn’t an issue, but there were people we turned away because they were known to be violent offenders or thieves.”

“And all of this was John’s idea?”

“He ran it. Eighteen years old and he ran a small relief mission. It’d cause a bit of trouble sometimes, because we’d get new members who’d heard about John Watson, and they expected a guy in his thirties or forties. Taking directions from a kid didn’t always sit well with them.”

“At first,” Colin’s smile is sardonic. “John really knew what he was doing, so nobody objected for long. He was a proper General even then, ‘s why nobody was surprised when he joined the army. It’s why we called ourselves Watson’s Warriors, even though he found it embarrassing.”

Frank shrugs. “Didn’t matter, did it? Most of us liked the name enough to vote for it, even if John voted against it. Anyway, we stuck to disaster relief sort of stuff for the first year or so, while we got our footing, and then we started to branch out a bit in ’98.”

“We still kept the childcare option for the parents among the Warriors, food pantries, things like that, but we also added self-defence classes, started a few clubs for hobbyists, organized vocational classes, and started really volunteering at veteran’s affairs offices, homeless shelters, and so on.” Colin ticks them off on his fingers.

“We were going for more involvement, because while the circumstances that started the Warriors weren’t the best, we wanted to keep it going.” Frank sounds proud. “Look at us now! Seventeen years and going strong.”

It’s certainly impressive. I ask if they have sponsors or a fund – the answer is a sheepish ‘no’.

“We’re a community volunteer organization,” Frank says, “or at least, we were. Nobody thought to register us as a charitable entity until 2010, and that was mostly because we’d lost the big hall we used to hold defence classes in when a pipe burst. When we went looking for a new space, Maddy found it was easier to get one in a decent location if we had all our paperwork in order.”

“So how do you fund your projects?”

“People donate as they can, but it’s usually in kind – bringing food to meetings, repairing stuff, things like that. An old friend of John’s is a fund manager, he administers the little cash we get pro bono as a favour. Besides, most of what we do is providing manpower to existing organizations, so we don’t have a lot of outlay to worry about.”

When asked, they elaborate gleefully on the projects Watson’s Warriors is involved in. Volunteerism is a passion of theirs, and it shows.

“A lot of warm bodies go to homeless shelters, food pantries, soup kitchens, retirement homes, and so on. Habitat for Humanity and the Red Cross are popular too. There are defence classes three nights a week, including one that’s women only and one that’s geared at children. We do a short CPR and first aid course every three months.”

“Then there are the classes,” Colin says. “I teach a photography course when I’m in town, Molly does a basic computer course every spring on top of running the first aid course. Oliver and Lee organize sports for the kids – Lee commentates the football matches, that’s always fun. There are a number of restaurant and small business owners who do short talks on running a business and if they find someone they think’s got potential they’ll take them on in a sort of apprenticeship. That’s how Abe got Seamus into the business, and right now it looks like Seamus will take over Abe’s pub when he retires.”

“Is there anything you don’t do?” I ask, half-joking.

“Yeah,” Frank says, “there is. We don’t support political candidates, we don’t back racists, homophobes, or their ilk, and we won’t back a charity whose money goes to line the founder’s pockets.”

There is, he goes on to explain, a vetting process. The Warriors will look at a charity’s aims, financials, and progress, along with those of its backers, before they get involved. Included in the process is two weeks in which senior warriors will quietly volunteer as private citizens, without disclosing their affiliation. If an organization raises too many red flags, it’s cut. They refuse to name names, but the examples they give of graft, misanthropy, and just plain bad behaviour are unpleasant to hear.

“You take this very seriously,” I note.

“We have to,” Frank grins. “Helping people out is serious business.”

“There were some problems back in ’99 and 2000 with people trying to scam us or misappropriate our resources,” Colin tells me.

Frank makes a disgusted noise. “Ugh, I thought I’d repressed those memories.” Colin elbows him, and he dodges it, laughing. “Okay, okay, fine, I’ll stop.”

I ask for details.

“It was just after John left us,” Frank begins. “He’d had two long years running himself ragged keeping the Warriors going, and was ready to move on to other things. We were pretty stable and he prepped us in advance, so we knew it was coming, but a lot of folks outside the Warriors were surprised. Thing is, John was very vocal as a leader and had a lot of standing in the greater community, and some people thought that with him gone the Warriors would be disorganized.”

“One idiot thought he’d – and I’m quoting him here – “step in to fill the power vacuum”. Ponce.” Colin snorts. “Frank here had the reins and the commanders were backing him, so the little ingrate was out of luck.”

“So you run the Warriors?” I ask Frank

He nods. “These past fifteen years.”

I ask if he finds it to be a full-time job.

“Absolutely. I’m lucky that my job is fairly flexible in terms of hours so long as I get my work done - I edit textbooks - but most of my waking hours go to the Warriors. I’m not doing it alone, obviously, the rest of the commanders are into it up to their elbows, but we’re all very busy.”

“This is the second time you’ve mentioned the commanders. Could you elaborate?”

“Oh, yeah. When we started out, we ended up organizing into specialties - for example, people who’d done construction were grouped together, the paperwork experts were another group, folks with medical or first aid training, and so on. Each group chose a leader, and John coordinated the larger group through us.”

“Frank was supplies commander before he got the big job,” Colin says. “Mostly because he had a genius for getting his hands on things at minimum expense. Leticia took over for him.”

I ask Frank to talk me through a typical day of his.

“I’m usually up around 6:30 or so,” he says. “I try to get my editing done in the morning if I can, then head over to one or the other of the usual Warriors meet-ups for lunch. I’ll get in contact with the coordinators to figure out how many people need to be where, write it all up, then I’ll put together patrol lists. I try to get in touch with the folks running the classes right after lunch, make sure they’ve got all the supplies they need. If we have to have a meeting with someone outside the Warriors, we try to schedule them for mid-afternoon. Then in the late afternoon it’s to one of the assembly points, and I’ll spend my evening pitching in at one of the charities on our lists or walking patrols.”

“Sounds like a busy day.”

“Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“I don’t know how he does it, I really don’t. I’m getting exhausted just thinking about it,” Colin says.

“Says the bloke who spends half his time on a plane or a bus or a car or a boat, traveling around the world.” Frank laughs at him.

Colin concedes the point, and I attempt to get back on topic. “Walking patrols?”

All the humour drops away from Frank. “We’ve had problems with Warriors being attacked from the beginning. Some of it’s people who don’t like what we do, some of it’s people who don’t like us as individuals. Some of it’s been us simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Organizing patrols was one of the first things John did when we began to set up schedules,” Colin says. “We moved in groups, and there was always at least one person whose sole job was to keep an eye out for trouble.”

“Did you, uh,” I fumble with my phrasing. “Run into trouble often?”

“Often enough.” Frank looks older, grimmer. It’s unsettling on a face that’s clearly more used to smiling. “More than one Warrior was badly injured our first winter. A couple of folks never quite recovered. The work we did then was dangerous, between the bombs and gas explosions and gang violence.”

“That’s how we lost Evangeline,” Colin says, subdued. “She was commander of refugee logistics, you know, helping folks who’d lost their homes find places to stay. She was checking out a property when...” His face works, and he trails off.

Frank puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, and we sit in silence for a moment. Later, Frank will give me Evangeline’s full name, but ask that I not publish it out of respect for her nieces, both active Warriors. A quick look into public records tells me that Evangeline was murdered in January of ‘98, beaten to death in a London alleyway. A local gang was suspected of the crime, but nothing could be proven. The case remains officially unsolved.

Eventually, Frank sighs, and drops the hand from Colin’s shoulder. “It died down a bit in late ‘98, but we kept the habit. If nothing else, it kept us from having our pockets picked or getting into confrontations with late night drunks. Patrols didn’t get really serious again until 2012, when we went public.”

In the fall of 2012, the Warriors were frequent targets of derision, tarred with the same brush as their founder for his belief in Sherlock Holmes. They were sometimes met with violence as well - perhaps the most serious incident occurred in late September of that year, when two Warriors walking home one evening after a stint at a soup kitchen were attacked and beaten.

I mention the attack.

“Yeah,” Frank sighs, “we’d been pretty sporadic about enforcing patrols up until, I don’t know, August or so? Patrol mostly consisted of accompanying other Warriors about halfway home before popping off home yourself. Mary and Sarah should have NEVER been on their own, and it’s a minor miracle they weren’t more badly hurt.”

“You changed it up,” Colin points out. “Ian and I thought you were channelling John’s best drill sergeant impression for a bit there.”

“We’re doing better,” Frank agrees. “We still have problems on occasion, but it’s not nearly as bad as it once was. We have more people and the folks sent out as volunteers are being better about sticking together, so nobody’s getting cornered off on their own.”

“Still, getting stuck on patrol at two in the morning in January’s the worst.” Colin makes a face.

“You,” Frank says, “haven’t been out on patrol at two in the morning in January in at least a decade.”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s still the worst patrol.”

I ask a question that’s starting to bother me. “If the Warriors have existed for seventeen years, why did you only step out into the public eye in 2012?”

“There are several answers to that question,” Frank says. “In part, it’s because we didn’t see the need to publicize. We knew who we were and the people we reached out to knew who we were, that was enough for us. We’d tossed the idea around a bit, sort of an interest in keeping the Warriors going when we’re all old and grey, but nothing had come of it.”

“I don’t know that we would have started advertising if it wasn’t for, well.”

“John Watson,” I offer.

Frank nods. “John. Most of the old guard owes John more than we can ever repay, more than he’ll ever let us repay, so we kept an eye out for him. We held back when he first came back, didn’t want to overwhelm him, but after St. Bart’s we couldn’t sit back any longer.”

“There were lots of arguments via Skype,” Colin says. “We wanted to allow John the chance to mourn in peace, but curiosity-seekers were harassing him and we couldn’t let them bother him.”

“We started out acting as private citizens, warning the busybodies and nosy off, but eventually we decided it was easier to make this an organized campaign than work as a collection of individuals. So we went public.”

“With the tagging,” I say. Frank and Colin smile but don’t comment. “How have operations changed since? Have they changed?”

“We had to up patrols and the self defence classes doubled,” Frank says. “We also had an influx of new recruits. It’s been an interesting couple of years.”

“Leticia went back into the archives and dusted off our old protocol write-ups. We hadn’t needed the things in years - most new warriors had seen us working in their community before they approached us, but total strangers were coming up to us on the street and asking to join.”

“Has it been a problem, integrating the new people?”

“No more than you might expect,” Frank leans back in his chair. “There was a lot of work to do to bring the newbies up to scratch, but most of them learned fast.”

“Though there was what’s-his-face, Hugh?” Colin turns to Frank.

Frank snorts. “Okay, yes, point.” He leans forward again, resting his elbows on the table. “We have on occasion asked people to leave and not come back. What’s-his-face-Hugh had some sort of bee in his bonnet about John, kept trying to get him alone to ask him questions. We ended up kicking him out, got him banned from the area.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Not really. We’re usually pretty good at weeding out the insincere before they get that close to John.” Frank smiles. It’s not a particularly friendly smile.

“It sounds like you came forward to defend John, then used the momentum and publicity to expand your work with charities.” Frank and Colin shrug, but don’t correct me. “What did John think of all this?”

Colin laughs. “I thought he was going to yell at us at first.”

“Not John,” Frank shakes his head. “No, his response was about what we expected. He shrugged his shoulders exasperatedly and let us do our jobs. He knows better than to stop us from doing what we think necessary to protect one of our own.”

“You take protecting each other seriously,” I note.

“It’s how we got started,” Frank shrugs. “My first day as a Warrior I spent helping dig kids out of the rubble of their home when the gas main went up.”

“My brother and I owe the Warriors our lives,” Colin tells me. “When our parents died, the Warriors kept us fed and sheltered and gave us something productive to do. They made sure I got medical treatment that saved the vision in my eye. We didn’t have any family we could go to, and the system was swamped. I’d have lost Dennis, and in all the chaos of that year...I honestly don’t know what would have happened to us.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the Warriors lost in memory. It’s broken by the ring of Frank’s mobile. Pulling it from his pocket, he looks at the caller ID and groans. “This can’t be good.” He gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, have to take this.”

Pushing back, he stands and walks away, on the phone with someone named Maddy. Colin turns back to me and asks if there’re any other questions I want to ask.

There are several, but I settle for two. “How many Warriors are there?”

He sighs. “I don’t have the exact numbers on the roster, but last Friday we had three hundred people at charities across London and another hundred on patrol. Glasgow had a hundred at charities and twenty on patrol, Edinburgh had a hundred out in total, Cardiff and Manchester reported about eighty apiece.”

I do the math and come out with seven hundred and eighty. “Is that...normal?”

“It was a busier night than usual,” Colin admits, “but it’s not unheard of. We’ve broken five hundred in London a couple of times, and there were a couple of nights this past winter where we had nearly a thousand people out across the UK and Ireland.”

“The record stands at one thousand and seventy six different people out on Warrior business in a week.” Frank drops back into his chair. “Sorry about that, Maddy wanted to confirm tonight’s assignments.”

“Did you stick her with the Blackfriars assignment again?” Colin wants to know.

Frank shakes his head. “New addition to the charities lists, I think we’ve got it all sorted though.”

“I just have one last question I want to ask. Why the yellow?”

Frank laughs. “There wound up being a lot of reasons for the yellow, but that’s one more thing that started off with John. See, the dorms at school had different colours, and John’s was yellow and black.”

“John was wearing his dorm scarf that winter. We just adopted the colour to the Warriors.”

“It’s a good colour,” Frank says. “Cheerful and easy to see. Besides, nobody else was wearing it.”

“It came to mean a bit more than that, though, didn’t it?” Colin and Frank look at each other, lost in some shared memory.

Frank slowly nods. “It did, didn’t it? Honour and loyalty and so on.” He pauses for a minute, then amends the statement. “Duty too. We’ve got a duty to those who need a hand.”

“It’s why we’re in the Warriors,” Colin agrees. “It’s what we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like most of my brighter ideas, the idea for this one came to me in the shower. I pitched it to Teacup, who got very excited and told me to run with it. In a reverse of the normal, she beta-read for me.


	3. For Science and Not For Science Mugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Chapter 15 of The Master of London, laughing_phoenix and I give you the “For Science/Not for Science” tea mugs! 
> 
> Picture is also on my tumblr!

 

From Chapter 15 of The Master of London, laughing_phoenix and I give you the “For Science/Not for Science” tea mugs! 

 


	4. Letter to the Wizarding World from the Master of London - Published in the Daily Prophet in June 1999

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letter to Wizarding Britain from the Master of London: Published in the Daily Prophet in June 1999, two weeks after the disappearance of John and Harriet Watson, on the anniversary of Voldemort's final defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Wizarding World's responses shall be posted upon request. (Seriously, request, it's 100% worth it.)

* * *

 

 

“To the people of Wizarding Great Britain - 

Let me start off by saying that no, we are not dead. The rumors suggesting so should be wholly disregarded. My sister and I have left the Wizarding World of our own free will, and we don’t plan on coming back. Not any time soon, at any rate. This is not a decision we made lightly, but we think it’s the best one for us right now. 

Frankly, with everything that’s happened within the last few years, it’s too risky for us to stay.  The Wizarding World is a disaster - a condition that is both upsetting, and in a certain sense, self-inflicted. If history is any indication, it’s not going to get much better, it won't for a while. We’ve done too much damage, to ourselves and our society, to make recovery easy.

Some of us allowed ourselves to be complacent, and others too violent. I’m not going to blame anyone. We’ve all had to do rotten things to survive. Far too many of us didn't. 

Politically, some of those responsible will get off with pardons for nothing more than a fee, a plea, or a claim of the Imperius Curse. Some will never be charged at all; and some will run and never face the consequences. We can try to change this - we should try to change this. But I’m not going to hold my breath.

I won’t be surprised if Wizengamot leaders - some of whom should lose their seats because they could have stopped some of the madness and didn’t - do not actually lose their seats. They’ll sit and praise the overthrow of Voldemort’s government, pretend that they played a part on the side of the good (not the light, goodness knows how many of us strayed to needing to use dark spells), but they’ll continue in the same vein that they always have. Never changing, never allowing any change to the world - change that might have stopped all of this. Before you know it, Auror numbers will fall, and muggle-borns will continue to be marginalized.

Werewolves, goblins, other sentient kinds will also be marginalized, put down, treated as if Umbridge and Voldemort had never left. It’ll be a return to the bad old days, and in another twenty or thirty years there’ll be another Dark Lord running around killing people. We’re wizards. We have lives and abilities that Muggles don’t - but we still fear what we can’t make sense of. And for that reason, we’ll continue on a cycle. As a world, YOU cannot allow that to continue. I won’t be an enabler for complacency. You broke the world. You fix it yourselves.

I do not appreciate the calls for me to be the next Light Lord for Britain. I will not be your new Dumbledore. Look at where some of Dumbledore’s choices led us.

"Nor do I enjoy people pretending to operate in my name. The Warriors are allowed to - the rest of you, lay off. The Warriors (and the ~~legal eagles~~ solicitors among them) have my blessing to take action against those who try to invoke the Master of London without permission.

People are trying to make changes, and for the most part, good for them.  I’d appreciate it, however, if you stopped trying to drag me into it.  I'm not a politician and never wanted to be. I’m the Master of London, I took on the role, instead of running to hide like the child I was when my father died, passing the role to me. I had no business leading a front in the war. Neither did Harry Potter. And yet, we did.  

Some people are trying to make changes.  Good for them, I wish I had their energy.  They’re fighting against centuries of stagnation, so they’ve got quite the battle on their hands.  The Ministry, which is supposed to protect and nurture the rights of all witches and wizards, is hopelessly corrupt and entirely unwieldy.  It exists for the service of a few, who abuse their wealth and position to enrich and empower themselves at the expense of the rest of us. This needs to change. Kingsley Shacklebolt has already started reforms. I support his efforts - the parts of it I have seen, at any rate.

If you’re looking for a way to help, great.  Help a family rebuild their home, donate to an orphanage, have a food drive.  Hogwarts is looking for volunteers to help with the rebuilding and the funds to do it with.  It’s really _not_ that hard.

For those already working in the Ministry, I have only this to say:  For once in your lives, for once in your history, do your damned jobs.  Your charter is to serve the whole, not the few.  Try following it for once, you might be pleasantly surprised. For those of you not in the ministry - you have the power and the obligation to prevent another war like this, to halt the further degradation of our society. Do what you can, do it often.

Vote, donate, help other wizards. Rebuild the world not as it was when it was destroyed - but better.

Don’t bother to find Harriet and I.  We’ve given enough of our lives to the Wizarding world, and we’re done. For now, at the very least.  I’ve left my dad’s website, [www.mgttww.net](http://www.mgttww.net) to a few friends who will see Muggleborns and Half-Bloods into our world better than anyone has in the past, they’ll take it from here.

\- John Hamish Watson - The Master of London, Heir of Hufflepuff.”

 


	5. Responses to John Watson's Leaving the Wizarding World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters and Op-Eds published in the _Daily Prophet_ in late June 1999, after John Watson's open letter to Wizarding Britain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular request, we present two responses to John Watson's letter. Everybody had an opinion on the matter - these two were selected for the contrast they present.

How wretched is Wizarding Britain now? 

In the past year, the Dark Lord had been able to stamp us down, with nary a fight - except for those brave souls who made up the Order of the Phoenix. And then the Warriors were created, another front in the War opened by the Master of London because people who couldn’t get out were desperate to survive. 

And in each scenario - the people who fought the most were little more than children. The ones that we were meant to protect, were the ones fighting, dying, to protect us. Because they believed that what they were fighting against was wrong, and they weren’t about to be complacent.

We, as a society, should be ashamed. I’m ashamed. 

For wizards who don’t know, the Muggle world at large has seen a horrible amount of war, tyranny and degradation of its own. People attacking those whom appear different from the norm - as they did to us, centuries ago. Like in our War, but on a far larger scale. Millions have been killed because of others’ perceptions of what was normal, what was ‘right’. The difference between our world, and theirs? In the Muggle world, using children as soldiers is considered a _crime against humanity_. The punishment for societies, for countries that do this is high, and the country is forever more considered as untrustworthy, lesser, wrong, in the eyes of others.

And yet, we did it anyway. We trained, and allowed, children to be our soldiers. We aren’t ‘better’ than Muggles, we’re worse. 

People tried to speak up against the war, against what we were doing to ourselves. The Muggle world has people like that too - people who speak out against prejudice, fear mongering and tyranny. Many suffer for their views, and more pay the ultimate price for standing against the status quo.

Think of the ones who did in our war: Amelia Bones, who was killed because she tried to lead the Ministry away from the Dark from the inside. Harry Potter, who was forced to fight a war because a madman was out for his head, and who first faced his foe at the tender age of fifteen months. Think of John Watson, who saw horror and injustice and suddenly had the means to fight it, and did not back down. The members of the Order of the Phoenix who, across two wars, fought to stop the deaths and imprisonments of thousands - while their own ranks were decimated.

I wasn’t one of those who spoke out. You probably weren’t either. We buried our heads in the sand. For that, in the aftermath, I am extremely regretful. Hindsight has always been able to show us our own guilt. 

And now, because of our folly, the Master of London has left us, perhaps for good. 

I’ve seen people writing that we should drag him back by his ears - make him sit on Hufflepuff’s throne in the Ministry. Make him fix everything, so that we can forget the War, so we can move on quickly. 

People see him as hope. He is a beacon of hope. He always be.

But John Watson is also right. Putting him on Hufflepuff’s throne will fix nothing. We have to fix this. Ourselves. We can make a world where children won’t have to fight because the adults around them will solve problems before it comes to that. We have to change, or we’ll rot from the inside out. We’re beyond ripe for it.

We should mourn the loss of the Master of London. He left because he felt he had to. 

But also, perhaps, because he looked and saw us as irredeemable. 

-Charity Eastchurch

 

A week ago, John Watson accused a large swath of the adult population of wizarding Britain of a wide range of crimes. 

Perhaps the mildest among them was incompetence, escalating up to corruption, malfeasance, torture and murder. These accusations were patently ridiculous, particularly coming from a bully-boy who turned and ran when the fighting was over and real work, the rebuilding, needed to be done.

Any thug can blow up a building or brawl in the streets. It takes men of real vision and courage to clean up the messes, to sit down and determine what needs to be done to bring normality back to a reeling people. To stand around and enumerate requirements without pitching in is the act of the indolent. To run from one’s responsibility is the act of a coward.

The wizarding world does not need John Watsons. Since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s death, Mr. Watson is, as Heir of Hufflepuff, the only known living scion of the founders lines who can trace his history back in direct descent. He is therefore the only wizard alive who can take the Heir’s throne in the Ministry. To declare it “not his job” to do so is specious. If, Mr. Watson, you do not wish to become an “enabler of complacency”, then it is your manifest duty to work for whatever changes you deem fit.

John Watson is a frightened coward - I can think of no other reason for a man to flee wizarding Britain when faced with an opportunity such as was dropped in his lap.

-Nicodemus Yates  
[Eds note: Mr. Yates would go on to take the Warriors to court in November of 1999 for “inciting hooliganism and corrupting the young minds of wizarding children.” The case was dismissed and Mr. Yates was required to pay all attendant legal fees.]


	6. Name Tags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An addendum to Chapter 15 of the Master of London: Home Again, Home Again, surrounding John's past interactions with the telephone box entrance to the Ministry of Magic. Set the day after the Battles (of Hogwarts, and of the lesser known Battle of Diagon Alley).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an addendum to Chapter 15 of the Master of London: Home Again, Home Again. It didn’t quite fit into the main fic itself, so into BadgerTalks it had to go! Enjoy!
> 
> As always, thank you to Laughing_Phoenix for being beta.

* * *

   
John glared at the name tag in his hands. He was exhausted. The Battles were done, Voldemort was dead, he hadn’t slept in about a week, there was grime and soot and blood (not his, mostly), covering every inch of him, of his robes, and the last thing he really wanted to deal with was the _stupid_ , _ridiculous_ , _telephone box_.

Behind him, he could hear one of his people snicker in amusement, but it was the shrill, hysterical laughter born of someone who was just as exhausted, physically _and_ emotionally, as John felt.

“Go home Cyril.” John ordered, still eyeing the name tag as if he was considering burning it.

“Can’t,” the fifteen year-old Slytherin hiccuped. “Haven’t got one.”

John sighed and fought the urge to rub a hand over his face. Cyril was one of a number of Slytherin Warriors who had refused to join Voldemort, and had been cast out as Blood Traitors. Cyril wasn’t his birth name, just one he’d chosen to represent his burnt bridges. “The Sett then.”

“Staying here, sir.”

“Don’t make me call Adam.” John said, realizing that he’d been looking at the name tag far too long for someone who was fine to continue.

It read:

John Hamish Watson  
Lord Hufflepuff  
Master of London

Conquering  
  


This was _not_ what he’d been called to the Ministry to do.

There was silence behind him from Cyril and the rest of the squad.

“If you get Adam, he’ll make you go back to the Sett too.” Cyril pointed out.

John made a noise of annoyed agreement. If Adam saw him, he’d get Frank, and Frank would likely stun him and turn him over to the Healers. (Honestly, he could probably use a Healer, he’d been bashed against more than a few walls in the last twenty-four hours. John was staunchly not thinking of the pain in his ribs or the ruins of Hogwarts at the moment.) “Right.” He said absently, slowly put the name tag back into the slot it had come from, and picked up the phone. “I’d like a new name tag, this one isn’t going to work for me.”

The magic of the telephone box didn’t respond to his request immediately, but when it did, “I’m sorry sir, one name tag per person. Please take your name tag and proceed to the Atrium.”

“No.” John replied, drawing out the syllable for a long moment. “This one says conquering. I’m not doing that. I’m just here to help out a friend.”

“I’m sorry sir, the name tag accurately states your intentions here at the Ministry.”

John stared at one of the dirty glass panes of the telephone box and the brick facade just beyond it. His hand tightened on the receiver, the only sign that he was feeling any emotion at all. “I have no intention of conquering anything.” He said flatly.

Behind John, one of the Warriors sagged against a wall and appeared to fall asleep.

John could hear the magic behind the telephone box attempting to process this. In the back of his head London, which had had a raucous couple of days, seemed to be considering letting John just blast a hole down to the Ministry, Statute of Secrecy or not.

“I’m sorry sir.” The telephone box said. “Those do appear to be your intentions.”

“I am here.” John growled, as behind him one of the Warriors started humming and swaying while staring at a brick wall. “To help someone from the Order of the Sodding Firebird get rid of entrenched, masked, pieces of filth from the Department of Mysteries. I am not, therefore, conquering anything.”

While his tone was reasonable, Cyril stepped back a step.

“Sir-“ The telephone box began. “That does sound like conquering.”

“Give me another name tag.” John said, his temper fraying.

“No.” Replied the telephone box.

“I demand a new name tag.” John said, restraining himself and London at the same time, feet anchoring him, and in a move that years later Sherlock Holmes would know meant trouble, indicated, repeatedly, his intentions of not moving from that spot until he got what he wanted with his pointer finger.

“One name tag per visitor.” The telephone box said primly.

Another Warrior, slumped against the wall next to her sleeping comrade, deftly tuned out the sound of explosive anger emanating from the interior of the telephone box.

* * *

   
This was how Kingsley Shacklebolt, new, hastily sworn in Minister of Magic, found the eighteen year old Master of London and his promised hit squad all standing around the magical telephone box in the middle of Whitechapel.

Only, really, if standing was a technical term.

John Watson stood outside the telephone box - which was currently missing more than a few panes of glass - screaming obscenities at it, the swearing mixed with something about a ‘name tag’.

Watching them, Kingsley supposed that the squad must have come directly from the Battle at Hogwarts (John certainly had), or perhaps a skirmish. They were not anywhere near fighting fit. These people were exhausted. One was weaving back and forth, staring at the wall, two appeared to be asleep, and, well…

“What is going on here?!” Kingsley thundered.

The only Warrior other than John who was still standing stumbled in Kingsley’s direction and, after patting Kingsley roughly on the shoulder, managed to say “S’ok. Johnny’s just arguing with the architecture.” And then giggled, clapped a hand over his mouth, and giggled again. Kingsley was certain he’d seen this one labeled a ‘blood-traitor’ on some of the Wanted posters.

Kingsley bit his lip, nodded, and said gingerly, “thank you for telling me.” He first steered the unfortunate towards a wall, where he had him sit - still giggling - and then made his way to the Master of London, whose screaming was becoming somewhat hoarse as he sagged.

“John.” Kingsley called from a respectful distance.

John spun around, wand immediately level with Kingsley’s throat, alert, though clearly with not all his faculties functioning at full capacity. 

 Kingsley raised his hands, wand still in his holster. “I mean no harm, old friend.”

There were tears running down John’s face, and his wand arm shook. Kingsley pretended not to notice. 

“Last thing I said to you.” John snapped, his voice breaking.

“John?”

“Last. Thing.”

“The southern wall is crumbling, use the east corridor.” Kingsley replied, realizing that John wanted confirmation that Kingsley was, in fact, himself.

John lowered his wand, and then lost the battle to stay upright, Kingsley surging forward to catch him.

“Have you even rested since the Battles?” Kingsley admonished, bearing John gently to the pavement.

John weakly shook his head. “No time.”

Kingsley took his wand out, and fired off a spell. “Frank, it’s Kingsley Shacklebolt, please come and collect the Master of London, he needs a good kip, also possibly a sedative and a good meal, and the same can be said for his squad. We’re at the public entrance to the Ministry,” he relayed to his Patronus, which sped away.

“Don’t want -“ John managed to get out.

“I do not care.” Kingsley said. “Even I have been allowed time to sleep.” For a few hours, at least. The Battles had ended only that morning. He paused. “The war is over, John.” He said kindly. “Your people are safe. The Death Eaters can wait, they are going nowhere.”

John’s eyes closed as the thunderous form of Frank Keane Apparated into view, still in pajamas.

When John and his squad were forcibly picked up and carried off, Kingsley found a name tag lying at the door to the telephone box. He picked it up, snorted in derision, and shredded it.

If the telephone box’s magic was tweaked later to accommodate reasonable requests in Kingsley’s first term of office, John did not need to know.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Research Links:
> 
> http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Helga_Hufflepuff  
> http://www.bbc.co.uk/wales/history/sites/themes/periods.shtml  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wales_in_the_Early_Middle_Ages  
> http://www.castlewales.com/medwales.html  
> http://www.britainexpress.com/wales/history/grufudd-ap-llewelyn.htm
> 
> More of these will probably follow as I ramble answers. I welcome many more questions.


End file.
